


of discarded dreams

by earliegrey



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earliegrey/pseuds/earliegrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Aomine & Kagami domestic and sweet drabbles. Sometimes set in present, sometimes set in future, it's still about the two of them anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, this is Earlie~ I wrote this as an exercise, and also to sort of squash my head canons in there. Also, everyone needs a bit of domestic fluff and sweetness, so here are some domestic drabbles for your soul~. 
> 
> (Somtimes set in present, sometimes set in future, it's not explicitly stated but there are hints to tell you their age throughout the drabbles, haha.
> 
> I apologize for any trouble with formatting, or if you spot any typos! I will fix them later on.

_i. in the mornings_

Daiki always wakes up first, no matter the time he drops to bed at night. He’s a light sleeper by nature—but enforced through night shifts, when he closes his eyes in exhaustion, but focuses on the light crackle from his radio against his dashboard and the sounds of passing cars rushing by.

By miracle, he gets up only twenty minutes earlier before Kagami’s alarm rings, takes a quick shower, shaves away the morning stubble and combs his hair with the tips of his fingers. Daiki strolls back into their small room, humming a catchy tune he’d have heard on the radio the night before, just as Kagami stirs from his sleep, hair sticking in odd angles and cussing at his alarm like he usually does.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Daiki laughs just as Kagami stumbles past him, dragging heavy feet against the floor. Kagami gives him a yawn as a greeting, scratching the back of his head ruffling his hair even more.

The bed, it’s still twin-sized, but now fitted in a nice sturdy frame a foot off the floor. They used to have bed rotations, until Daiki told Kagami that sleeping together cut down on electricity bills, warmer in winter, that kind of thing. (Actually, there’s not much of a difference, but Daiki liked the extra warmth and someone to sling his arms around or vice-versa, and thankfully, Kagami was stupid enough to agree with him.)

Daiki pulls at the sheets, still warm from Kagami’s body heat, and lifts them up, watching the white bellow out as it floats down against the bed.

It’s a small little bed, but he can’t see himself or themselves getting a bigger one any time soon.

 

_ii. he begs to touch_

Aomine finds every excuse to touch him.

(Or at least, that’s what Kagami surmises.)

His hands linger for a second too long whenever he hands Kagami an extra burger just as Kagami’s finished with his own. ( _I’m full, you can have this_ , Aomine once told him after wiping his mouth with the corners of the napkin. Kagami lifted a brow at that, because he’s eaten with Aomine more than enough times to know that the cocky bastard  _doesn’t just share_ without asking for anything in return.)

Aomine sticks his hand into Kagami’s jacket pockets whenever he can, because he’s cold and he’s dumb to  _not_  buy any gloves for himself. And then there are the times when Kagami is aware of the eyes boring into the back of his head whenever he throws a friendly arm around Kuroko’s neck, reeling him into an obnoxious embrace and whispering something like a joke, shared, Seirin-exclusive.

And now there’s this, they’re sitting on his couch, watching NBA games, and Kagami can see Aomine fidgeting next to him, leg jittering and hand kneading the cushion under his fingers. Aomine isn’t paying attention to the game,  _of course_  he isn’t—this is the third time Aomine had decided to stay over at Kagami’s apartment for the night.

Kagami had told him that he didn’t mind the intrusion and Aomine can be as casual as he wants to but.

“Hey,” Kagami says and Aomine almost jumps at this, but doesn’t turn to look. He’s trying to play it smooth, but failing miserably. Aomine would’ve passed, if only he didn’t jerk like he just did. “If you’re cold, I can turn the heater up or something.”

“Ah, I’m fine,” Aomine says after clearing his throat, and for a second, the jittering stops. It must be conscious effort on Aomine’s part.

Kagami stares at him for a while, at the eyes that are determined to glare holes into his widescreen TV, at the stiff way he sits, and—there it goes again, the kneading, when his fingers curl up on themselves, tense and then relax. Kagami inhales slowly and collects the measly shreds of his courage and shifts a foot closer,  _a lot_  closer to Aomine, until their shoulders are touching.

It’s warm, really warm.

“Wait, what are you—” Aomine nearly explodes, before Kagami just  _flops_  on him, shifting until he can rest his head against Aomine’s shoulder.

“Trying to watch the game, shut up,” Kagami mumbles, feeling his cheeks burning, as he watches #18 shoot a basket from the free throw line with something like a hook shot. He can feel Aomine’s arm strain against him, muscles tensing at the contact, like a cat freezing up when thrown in a tub of water. (Somewhere in the back of Kagami’s mind, he thinks— _shit, shit, shit, what if I’m just misreading into things, then what—)_

It’s too late to back out now.

“It’s fine, you know,” Kagami says loudly with a frown. He’s bluffing, there’s a shake in his voice somewhere that Kagami can’t rid of. “I don’t care.” Well, he does. He does  _a lot_  because  _what if—_

A beat passes, and he hears a sigh of relief? of contempt? of—?

There’s a hand on his shoulder before Kagami figures how it’s even got there. Aomine doesn’t say anything but pulls him a bit closer, fingers digging into the wrinkles of Kagami’s thin black shirt. He hums something in his throat, something low and inaudible, like a  _fine, fine_ or _I’ll take your offer,_ or something—Kagami thinks—suspiciously sounding like a  _thank you._

They’re both prideful in a way, so they’d never say  _that_ , but Kagami doesn’t mind because there’s this, the fingers against his arm, and the steadying lift and fall of the slope in Aomine’s shoulder.

It’s warm, really warm.

 

_iii. end of November, start of December_

There was a day.

Taiga still remembers it to the hour, the second, the soft inhales of breath, and the clinks of chopsticks hitting bowls with rice falling to the table in clumps—he remembers the exact moment when his thoughts turn him inside out and everything just shifts, so minutely, like some kind of slow revelation.

It roughly can be summarized into something like this:

They’re watching the latest NBA playoffs because Aomine has figured out how to hook his laptop to Taiga’s TV with an HDMI cable; that night, the TV flickers because there’s a storm outside, and the cheers are nearly droned out by the pitter-patter of the rain against the windows.

There’s dinner on the low-table, hot-pot because it’s the end of Novemeber, and Taiga had wanted to eat broiled pork and radish, so they eat in a rather comfortable silence, sitting cross-legged, side by side, knees bumping and toes curling into the warmth of odd-patterned cushions underneath.

There are half-empty cans of beer, among shredded cardboard and plastic bags, scattered on the floor near their feet.

Aomine leaning back and resting against the sofa behind them, eyes drooped, content, sleepy, almost feline in the way he stretches, and watching Taiga eat with a lazy smile, and then.

Brushing the pad of his thumb over the corner of Taiga mouth, wiping away a fleck of pepper, and then tracing the outline of his lips.

There’s that flare in the pit of his chest, unfurling and unlocking a want to close the distance and, Taiga does.

Leaning into the rough outlines of the calluses criss-crossing Aomine’s palm, he breathes a little, lips too dry, and feels Aomine’s mouth, soft and open, pressing gently against his.

The cheers from the TV dissolves into something like background noise.

 

_iv. five cups of rice, no more and no less_

Daiki is meticulous with his measurements. When given the apron and the authority to touch anything and everything in their shared kitchen, his crisp shirts are rumpled and rolled to his elbows as he awkwardly pours the table salt while leveling his height to the kitchen counter, peering at the tablespoon container filling with salt.

He under-pours a lot, to be safe, he says. But when he-over pours, Daiki cusses. Spends an extra five minutes looking for a way to slide the salt back into the can, and he starts again. Repeat and repeat because Daiki has come to like this niche of calculated perfection, believing that meals can taste  _good_  if recipes are religiously followed down to the period at the end of the vertical Japanese sentence.

He can’t fathom Taiga’s knack for  _cooking_ , the pinch of spice that Taiga haphazardly throws in from between his forefinger and thumb, the millisecond he takes to spill the oil from the nozzle of the bottle because _how on earth does he know what enough is?_

There are mornings when Taiga oversleeps and wakes to the sound of the sharp tap of eggshells against the counter, and the chopstick whisking around the metal bowl in a swish,  _swish_.

By the time, Taiga drags himself from bed, boxers riding a bit higher than the sweatpants falling off his hips, Daiki is slouched over the counter top, tongue snug between teeth, concentrating on kneading wet rice with the palm of his hand.

The measuring cup sits near the kitchen sink, beads of water still clinging to the sides.

 

_v. blue-green, maybe emerald eyes_

Spring.

It’s when it started really, the beginning of the end—when the numbers of their jerseys change, and they grow a bit older, more authoritative on court.

Everyone’s watching them now.

Touou and Seirin are established rivals ever since their win against them in the Inter-High and the loss in the Winter cup, some very short years ago. For the sake of securing another trophy or another win against the other school, news of the other team travels fast, spreads like wildfire and reaches the gym in whispered hushes of  _did you hear about—?_

Mid-spring.

Aomine is lounging on top the stage, a folded basketball monthly magazine in his hand as he reads about Shuutoku’s and Kaijou’s recent practice match. From his left, he hears some stretching team members whisper about a promising freshman and the Seirin captain staying overtime for the past few weeks.

Watch out for #9, they say, the captain is training him to replace him as the next ace.

Aomine lets the magazine fall just a bit, ears prickling at the news. He’s not surprised, really; most of the more talented players of his age are doing the same to make sure their schools carry on the legacy that they had set two years prior.

What he  _is_  surprised at is the fact that Kagami’s been brushing him off for the past two weeks for some reason unknown, and  _this_  was the reason why? The magazine crumples under his grip as he shoves it into his open duffle bag next to him.

“I need to go,” he says to Sakurai, who all upperclassman had unanimously voted for as the new captain of the Touou basketball team. “Skipping practice today.”

“Aomine-san,” he says with a stress in his voice and a threatening edge. Aomine has come to respect him, that shaking, nervous wreck of a freshman he used to be some years ago. Now, Sakurai has a quiet, commanding air to him, seemingly weak-willed but pulls through with sheer stubbornness. (Aomine still knows how to boss him around, but if anything, Sakurai is the passive-aggressive type.)

“Yeah, something important. I just remembered it,” Aomine lies through his teeth.

He hasn’t skipped since the last month—amazing, isn’t it—so he’s still in the clear. Sakurai and Momoi both kindly (and repeatedly) remind him that the underclassman think of Aomine as co-captain—(Ace no longer sounds as cool as it used to be, it’s been reused and rewashed a million of times like an old sock stretched and worn from wear.)—and he  _must_  set a good example for them no matter what.

Aomine thinks he does a pretty good job.

He keeps them in line, in check, orders the basketball team to undergo extra rounds of practices (himself excluded, of course), and whether the death menu is for his amusement or to build a stronger team, no one really knows—but that aside.

“All right, Aomine-san. I will see you tomorrow then?” Sakurai asks, standing up after his shoelaces were neatly tied. Aomine jumps from the top of the stage and to the court, basketball shoes squeaking on the varnish.

“Yeah.”

 

_v-i. so he’s an ugly, little green-eyed monster_

Tokyo is a vast city, it takes him two bus stops and a twenty minute walk to finally arrive at the gates of Seirin. Aomine doesn’t come here often, but he remembers it as a place with an over abundance of cherry  blossom trees, petals floating down and turning the ground into a mush of muddied pink.

There is a crowd of lingering students strolling out from the gates, many would giggle or laugh and pass by, like he’s a ghost and not a hair out of place. Aomine strolls in with the bag strap hanging precariously over his shoulder, seeking out the gym.

He’s only been here three times, once was for a practice match, the second was for a training camp hosted over the summer holidays, and the third was for the Seirin captain himself.

It isn’t hard for him to find the gym, it stands out against the other buildings—rounded dome, glistening in the bright sunlight. The doors are wide open, he hears squeaks of rubber soles of shoes smearing against the court and chaotic beats of basketballs echoing against the ground, rebounding off the hoops.

The gym is almost identical to the one at Touou, dirty light filtering from the windows overhead, trickling dust floating in the high ceilings above; there are benches on the opposite side of the wall, the curtains for the stage are murky red here and not green.

“Once more, continue the lay-up!” he hears a voice shout after a shrieking peep from a whistle. The female coach, still in her school uniform, stands commanding from the side-lines, yelling names, criticism, and praises alike with the same gusto.

The team has grown considerably since their measly eleven member team in their first championship win. There's quite a number of them, buzzing around the half-court, balls weaving between feet and bodies spinning to break free from marks.

Kagami, when Aomine finally spots him, is on the other side of the court, alone with a brown haired guy, thick glasses, with a height that challenged Kagami’s (which would explain why he’d be training as the ace.) Kagami’s dark blue shirt (which is a nice change from the black he normally wears) is soaked with sweat and the long sleeves are tucked up into rolls near his elbows.

“I’ll show it to you again,” Kagami says, patiently. “Watch how I move.”

He takes the ball, controls the pace, muscles in his arms stretching with each flick of his wrist, and then it quickens. Kagami suddenly drops, knees bent and he becomes something like a quick blur, snapping from the left to right, ducking away from the underclassman after his fake, and Aomine thinks its beautiful.

With a jump, effortless, like he’s almost weightless, Kagami has connected his hand to the hoop, dunking the ball in with ease. There’s a split second when he’s suspended in air, his jumping power keeping him afloat, and it’s  _beautiful_.

Aomine’s hand tighten around the strap of his bag, as the ball trail towards his feet. He marvels at the sweat glistening on the nape of Kagami’s neck, at the furrowed brows as he talks and purposely slows his movements, stretching his arms and playing an imaginary foe—

“I think you know what I’m talking about, Mori,” Kagami says and puts his hand on the underclassman’s shoulder, Aomine frowns at  _that_ and glances down, at the basketball, so conveniently there.  “We can have a one-on-one later afterwards, and then when we’re back at my place, I’ll show you something nice.”

The guy doesn’t have the decency to look like he’s imposing on his upperclassman. What nerve, Aomine grumbles under his breath.

“Captain, I brought some things for you since you’ve been helping me a lot.” A vein snaps and with his entire upper body, Aomine is about to  _hurl_ the basketball from the door to the guy’s face. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Kagami laughs, oblivious. Can’t he see the guy’s clearly getting too comfortable? “No, not at all.”

“Then, I’ll—“

It’s that particular moment when Kagami catches sight of him, eyes widening and mouth opening. Aomine almost forgets his annoyance and smiles at him—almost.

(The ball in Aomine’s hand would incriminate him then and there, so he opts to juggle it with his hand. Nice save, nice save.)

Kagami has completely forgotten about Mori and walks up to him, heaving deep breaths, which is odd. He didn’t seem to be out of breath while he was watching him.

“What are you doing here?” (It doesn’t sound like a question, more like a demand; Kagami looks tired but there’s that undeniable spark in his eyes, the kind he gets when there’s a discount off at Maji’s or—whenever he manages to break past Aomine during their one-on-one’s, which hasn’t been happening for about  _two_  weeks.)

Aomine feigns bored casualness but the quirk in his lips betrays him. “I had time.”

“You had time…” Kagami echoes.

Vaguely, Aomine notices the dwindling silence from the other half court. They’re taking a break, drinking from their water bottles, and all eyes are on their captain and the stranger— _Touou Ace_ —that he was talking to.

“I was let off practice today,” Aomine says and places the ball right into Kagami’s hands. Kagami doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t press it. “Decided to scout your team for a while. You’re doing rather well.”

“Hah, if the ace has that kind of luxury, Touou must have some kind of trump card up their sleeves,” Kagami says, tossing the ball to the side to join the many others lolling about on the floor.

“I suppose,” Aomine mumbles with a shrug. Over Kagami’s shoulder, he sees Mori, awkwardly standing there, in a trance with what’s unfolding in front of him. The much respected captain and ace of opposing teams, supposedly  _rivals_ , are talking  _civilly_  with one another at the door of the gym.

It must be amazing for the underclassman, Aomine thinks, and he entertains the idea of putting on a little show for them, instill some fear before the championship games, and dunk into a hoop hard enough to  _break it_.

(Though Kagami would show them an even greater display, one that would involve beheading and Aomine’s death, so maybe not.)

“I see you’re training Kagami Jr., you’re ready to retire, huh?”

“Fuck off,” Kagami mumbles and punches him in the shoulder. It barely hurts. “What are you really here for.”

“I want you to take me home,” Aomine says loudly, and everyone hears him now. “You know. I’ve been  _so_  lonely the last few weeks, you’ve been ignoring me, Taiga-kun. I’m hurt.”

There’s an eerie silence from his team that makes Kagami blush red, from ear to ear, and he grabs Aomine by the front of his jacket and pulls him right out of the gym. Aomine leers at that over-friendly underclassman who’s trying to get into Kagami’s pants by saying he’d stay over the night, (as if Aomine would let that happen)—then Kagami jerks him around the corner, smashes him against the concrete wall and  _bites_ him.

On the mouth.

Like a kiss, but not really. (Sure, they’ve kissed before. Soft nips and almost kisses  _maybe_  counting, but kisses like this—hard, and satisfying a hunger—were hard to come by and it’s surprising, pleasantly surprising.)

Sharp teeth bit down against his lip, drawing from him a low growl and a smirk. Aomine sneaks his hand under his shirt, and touches the small of Kagami’s back. The skin is sweaty, still warm and he lets his fingers chase the lines of Kagami’s body, muscles twitching under his touch.

“I’m going to guess I’m not the only one who’s been lonely?” Aomine whispers, lips sore and red with a touch of fondness easing away at the corners. He laces his arms around Kagami’s waist, holding him, trapping him there. “Should’ve returned my calls, asshole. I was worried.”

“Yeah. I got busy. Sorry,” Kagami says and lets go of the fistful of shirt. He tries to move and finds that he can’t. There’s a frown and then a growl. “We’re at school.”

“Mm,” Aomine laughs, their breaths are mixed and he contents to pressing his lips against his again. Kagami doesn’t fight, doesn’t put the effort into pulling away; he leans closer, lazily, drowsily. “You kissed me first.”

“Very mature.”

“I’m younger than you.”

“By only a month,” Kagami laughs with a light lilt in his voice. He tucks his head into the crook of Aomine’s neck, body pressing against his, relaxing in Aomine’s hold. It feels like the weight of the world is melting from his shoulders, and Aomine wonders how much stress Kagami had to deal with on his own.

If someone was to walk out from the gym, turn a corner, they’d see their respectable Seirin captain, rigid and always holding himself up as the role model for the entire team, melting in the arms of their sworn enemies’ ace.

Aomine can imagine it being quite a shock to both schools if word got out.

(Though, he can imagine the coach and the other third years being smart enough to  _make sure_  they are alone, otherwise Kagami would blow a fuse.)

“Forget Kagami Jr.,” Aomine finally says against the shell of his ear, pressing his hand against the sharp bone of Kagami’s hip, thumb rubbing aimless circles through the cloth and at the skin. “Show  _me_  something nice instead.”

“I was going to show him tapes of the other schools, jack ass, what else do you think we do,” Kagami laughs, breath muffled into the dark Touou jacket and mixing into the seams. “I can’t believe you’re jealous of an underclassman.”

“Well, yeah, anyone would be, bastard,” Aomine mumbles in breaths and in between kisses dropped against Kagami’s temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, okay done~ I have a few more drabble ideas I wanted to write but I finished this at 2 am, so I will probably make a drabble collection for another day. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for reading! Leave a kudo or a comment if you liked it~ I'd love to know your thoughts! ^q^// See you next time~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlie here again! I had these sitting in my drafts for the longest time, so I thought I'd wrap things up and dump them here. These are more drabbles that just felt really out of place in my regular works. Some of these drabbles have been posted on my tumblr (which I don't use much of anymore. xD)
> 
> It's set in canon verse or future verse, whichever.
> 
> Please excuse the typoes!

_i. even as the world goes on, I’ll be silent to the end_

_Can I tell you a secret?_

He thinks as he pins Taiga to the bed, pillows askew and cast to the floor, hands curled around his wrists and feeling the hot blood rush through Taiga’s veins. Daiki kisses him until he’s breathless, gasping for air, mouth open, and he plants butterfly kisses on every inch of skin that he can, from the pulse in his throat to the tips of his fingers.

_I almost died today—someone had a gun, I was almost shot—_

Taiga knows this is different, weird.

Something’s wrong.

He’s not really the thick-headed idiot people make him out to be, and he brushes his hands into Daiki’s hair, fingers tugging gently, and tries to take a look at Daiki’s face in the dimming, evening light. But Daiki wouldn’t allow it.

_I thought I was going to die._

He just wants to feel Taiga’s warmth, his skin, wants to know that he’s still here, still in that apartment and not lying limply on a stretcher with blood staining through his navy shirt and—

“Daiki,” Taiga murmurs, and his palm is so warm and so rough against Daiki’s cheek, comforting even if he doesn’t fully understand. Daiki feels arms wrap around his torso, pulling him closer; an unmistakable, steady rhythm beats in his chest, he feels the quiet intake of breath. “I’ve got you. It’ll be fine.”

Taiga smells like a strange mix of things, like dish detergent, like the lemony spike in their cheap bar of soap, like the fading scent of his cologne, worn off throughout a rough day. And he breathes, slow and deep, calm, as he has Daiki’s face buried into the crook of his neck. Daiki feels the weight of his hand between his shoulders, and the voice over his hair, “Want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head after breathing a shaky sigh.

_No, it’s a secret._

_ii. some razor blades and foam_

“And I’m telling you it’ll be fine,” he says, and if there wasn’t that small, annoying twitch at the corner of his mouth, Aomine would’ve believed him. It’s too suspicious, the supposedly reassuring grin on Kagami’s face, and the  _thing_  in his hand is frighteningly pink, girly, from Satsuki (Aomine’s sure of it.)

“Trust me.”

“…yeah, I don’t think so,” Aomine says, shifting a bit on the coach pillows propped behind him. He tries to jerk his foot away but Kagami’s hold on his ankle doesn’t relent. “I’m fine like this, I swear to god, Kagami, you better fucking let go—“

“Come on, you big baby, it’s not going to hurt,” Kagami says before he squeezes some foamy thing onto his hands, and Aomine cringes when he lathers it up his legs.

It’s so fucking  _cold,_ why the fuck is it so cold.

“The tape will stick better if there’s no hair in the way—unless you want it all to come ripping off when you’re done—“

The phantom sting lances up his legs and leaves him with a shiver.

“Okay, fine.  _Fine_ ,” Aomine grumbles and sinks back into the pillows with a defeated slump. He crosses his arms stubbornly and glares at the rolls of athletic tape, something he’s seen wrapped around Kagami’s limbs too often, but he’s never come within a foot of it, until now. “I still don’t see why I have to do this.”

“You went all out in two matches in a row, dumbass,” Kagami says as he wipes his hands off on a dry towel. And then he goes to pick up the next thing lying on the floor right next to the bright rolls of athletic tape, a fucking  _razor._

A thread of panic creeps under Aomine’s skin again, as he watches Kagami meticulously slide the razor over the towel, slowly, like he’s prepping for a slaughter. “Your muscles are going to be injured without proper care—“

Aomine jerks his foot away when Kagami taps the plastic head against his ankle. Kagami looks up at him, scrunching his thick eyebrows down.

“You’re going to  _cut_  me with that thing,” Aomine says, matter of factly, trying to keep his voice from cracking. Kagami rolls his eyes at that, and his grip is hard on his ankle as he yanks back. “I won’t be able to play basketball anymore, I’m gonna be in a wheelchair—“

“Oh my god, shut up,” Kagami says loudly, and he  _scrapes_  the razor up his leg. Aomine braces himself for the excruciating pain, for his potential life-long career of basketball to be dashed to the ground in a second, and—

Nothing happened.

Aomine blinks and feels the weight of Kagami’s eyes on him. When he decides to look, he sees Kagami giving him a deadpan gaze. “Did that hurt?”

“…er,” Aomine coughs and glances away, feeling his face heating up. “…no.”

“Well, then,” Kagami says with a huff, and he wipes the razor off on the towel, several dark blue strands of hair is wiped off with it.

That tiny, secretive smile on Kagami’s face has Aomine dreading for other things, things like rumors circulating among everyone and everyone’s mom that  _the_  Aomine Daiki is scared of shaving his legs. Though  _seriously_ —

“Jeez, don’t worry. I’m not going to cut your legs off with this thing,” Kagami assures again with a laugh that isn’t reassuring at all.

_iii. not even band-aids can cover this_

There’s something awkward about having a scrape on your knee.

Sure, it’s painful and all, with strips of skin ripped off and tiny bits of dirt and rock stuck in the pink, sensitive flesh underneath—but it’s the band-aid that’s the awkward thing.

You know. Stick a band-aid on your knee, whether bent or out-stretched, the band-aid is going to move itself someway or another.

Add some sweat to that, and the band-aid will fall off during a high-paced game in the tournament.

Kagami’s sure of it.

Now, if they had gone back to the locker rooms and  _had asked_  Riko for a first-aid kit, there should be something in the white box that was more suited to covering the huge scrape on his knee.

But see, they were a few blocks away from the tournament gymnasium, at a street court, taking advantage of the half-day break between their games before Kagami mis-stepped a small ledge and ate the rocky concrete.

Kagami seriously thought he was fine with the cuts and scrapes, but the rather large gash on his knee had Aomine furrow his brow before he  _yelled_ at Kagami to wait there, on the bench, as he dashed into the nearby convenience store.

Which led them to this:

“They didn’t have other sizes,  _I swear_ ,” Aomine grumbles as he peels apart these micro-tiny band-aids, flicking the trash into the same plastic bag he was fishing them out of.

“No, no, it’s fine, that’s not going to work. I don’t need it anyways,” Kagami says, wincing a little as he pats at his knee with alcohol soaked tissue. Aomine stops shredding apart the plastic backing of the band-aids and looks up at him, gaze sharp. “…I’m serious, Aomine, I don’t—“

“And I’m even more serious because this is going to affect your play.”

And with that, Aomine carefully puts the bandage at the very top of his scrape, and goes off to pinch at another one.

He’s going to need at least five of these to cover it up, and Kagami decides to give up fighting when Aomine sticks on the second one, with his eyebrows scrunched in concentration and bottom lip under his teeth.

Perhaps some months ago, Aomine’s irritation would have been surprising.

Kagami would have also probably thought of it as an overreaction, the way Aomine just pounces at injuries, acting as if Kagami’s  _entire leg_  is mangled and instead of just a scrape on his knee.

“If you lose because of something like this…” Aomine mutters distractedly, as he meticulously arranges band-aids in neat little rows, covering Kagami’s skin, inch by inch.

He doesn’t continue the thought, just sits back against the gravel floor, picking up stray trash and plucking at weeds alike, but Kagami can read him as easily as a book.

The delicate touch, and the bated breath Aomine holds as he brushes the pad of his thumb over the make-shift patch of band-aids, as if convincing himself that it’s enough for Kagami’s wound.

Aomine is afraid of many things, mostly unspoken but Kagami understands it all the same.

“It’s just a scrape, dumbass,” Kagami says, a laugh in his voice as he knocks a fist lightly into the top of Aomine’s head. “Stop being such a drama queen over it, geez.”

“I’m  _not—_ ” Aomine snaps back, indignant, just as Kagami stands up from the bench and the band-aids  _just start falling off_. “…fucking hell, I just put that on—“

“Yeah,” Kagami says blankly, staring down at the micro bandages, flapping freely in the idle wind. He suppresses a bark of laughter and clicks his tongue. “… _yeah_ , let’s head back and ask coach for something better, okay?”

He reaches a hand out, inviting, in front of Aomine and grins from above.

“…fine.”

_iv. baby, come back_

_“Baby come back—! You can blame it all on me—“_

“Wahahahaha—! Oh my  _god_ —“

Pause.

Tap, tap. Replay.

 _This is so stupid_ , Kagami thinks, as he tries to solve the third math problem in his trig packet, and yes, Seirin covered trigonometry, but this is college-level math and everything college-level is just suddenly  _harder._  (Don’t even try to argue with him on that.)

So he just ends up drawing circles and triangles along the margin of his paper, trying his best to ignore that  _idiot_  sprawled all over his sofa with a laptop propped near his chin, guffawing away at the dumbest youtube videos.

But even then,  it’s kind of difficult to focus on math equations when there is a repeating chorus of  _baby, come back_  followed by some variation of hyena laughter being blasted in front of him.

“Oh my god, Aomine, just shut up,” Kagami growls, holding his head in his hands as Aomine snorts, biting back another laugh. “I’m trying to do my homework.”

“Then don’t do your homework,” he replies easily, twisting around until his back is against the cushions. He holds the screen of  _Kagami’s_ laptop between his forefingers and precariously flings it onto his stomach. The youtube clip is still playing, obnoxious and loud.

Kagami regrets a lot of things in his life, and one of them is allowing Aomine to fly eleven hours over the Pacific (with a quick layover in Hawaii!) only to crash and burn at Kagami’s teeny, tiny apartment in Los Angles.

Sure, it’s summer, so it’s not like Aomine’s seriously going to stay too long, but Kagami has classes to make up (because trigonometry in English is just  _so fucking hard_ ) and while his evenings are free, his mornings and afternoons aren’t.

Another regret is allowing Aomine to flip through the channels of his TV, not like he can understand anything being said, before a particular Swifter Duster commercial played and caught his attention.

Now Aomine’s English is absolute shit—(he can’t string a simple  _Excuse me, where is the bathroom._  for his life)—but for some reason, on that mid-morning of one of Kagami’s school days, Aomine picked up on the words  _baby, come back_ and has been laughing at the commercial for the longest time for  _days._

“Kagami,” Aomine says from his perch on the sofa, his laughs winding down into light huffs. He’s wiping at his eyes, having laughed himself to tears, what a fucking cracker. “Why doesn’t the lady want to get back with her broom. He’s trying so hard—“

“Because it sucks,” Kagami says after reading the first question on his blank worksheet filled with doodles and other scritch scratches.

Aomine clears his voice and it sounds brittle from all that coarse laughing he did. “Yeah, but he’s trying so hard—“

“It’s a fucking  _broom_ , Aomine,” Kagami says and his pencil nearly snaps in half, as he tries to read it again, only to be interrupted when Aomine sits up and the laptop is placed on the other cushion of the sofa.

(Honestly, he can’t study like this. The worksheet is due tomorrow and he’s been staring at it blankly for half an hour.)

“It’s fucking hilarious but I just feel bad for it, you know?” Aomine begins and Kagami doesn’t want to hear the rest of it, so he tucks his worksheet and pencil into his textbook and stands from the coffee table. “Being replaced and that kind of—uh, where are you going?”

“Library,” Kagami simply says as he turns his back on Aomine. “I need to finish my homework.”

“Wait,  _baby_ —“

Kagami slams the door behind him just as the chorus plays again, this time with Aomine hollering to the lyrics and attaching his name to it—

(It doesn’t take a few minutes until Aomine is tailing him down the street, singing in bad English it might as well be some form of Japanese, as Kagami glares down every single person who stares at him and the idiot following behind.)

_v. he’s the one who cries_

He’s like a marshmallow.

Kagami jokes that he probably watches chick flicks and reads shoujo manga in his spare time instead of porn magazines and amateur (illegally) downloaded sex videos that he sometimes, almost frequently boasts about, and that’s what makes him a big squishy softie at heart.

Aomine denies it, of course.

And he almost hides it under his frowns and wrinkled brow, his reluctant acceptance of things and outright denials, but in the end, all Kagami has to do is wander a touch too close, maybe lean against him, hand reaching out to brush briefly against his and Kagami  _knows_ thatAomine’s turned into a pile of mush, face reddening and glancing away with a deepening scowl.

They usually watch movies on Fridays nights, over at Kagami’s place, and they take turns, choosing what to watch every week. (Horror is  _not_  an option, by the way.)

Last week was a samurai film, chosen by Aomine, and this week. This week is—

“Why the fuck are we watching this,”Aomine groans for the tenth time, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch until his head is pressed against Kagami’s arm. He balances a bowl of chips on his stomach and reaches for the box of tissues next to him to wipe off his fingers.

“Kise recommended it, and it’s not that bad,” Kagami deadpans, resting his cheek against his hand. Movies based off true stories are usually tear-jerkers of some kind, and it’s not like he hates them since they’re somewhat motivating but Aomine, on the other hand, is suffering.

The plot isn’t the cheesiest he’s ever seen, but it is predictable—a teen to a poor family aspired to leave the countryside, baited with the promise of winning award money, he signs up for a basketball team where he and his teammates of rookies train until they’re ready to be pitched into the tournaments, an accident happens and he’s torn between the decision of staying or returning home, to where his father is.

It’s a long movie, and they’re barely halfway done, but there are moments, small ones, like a talk between father and son that hits just a  _little_  too close to home and Kagami almost sniffles— _almost._ And it’s not until he hears shuffling of paper that he notices Aomine grabbing at the tissues and dabbing at his eyes.

Kagami doesn’t watch the movie after that. He smothers away half-grins and light laughter at how  _discreet_  Aomine isn’t, rubbing at his nose and grabbing wads and wads of tissue to sniff into or blow his nose and it’s hilarious how Aomine hasn’t noticed that Kagami’s watching him.

It’s a nice kind of different, discovering this squishier side to the otherwise grumpy teen, seeing his eyes reddening at the film, and it’s a privilege to know this secret, something private only a few people know and keep stashed away at the back of his mind.

Aomine would probably kill him if he was caught staring, but really, the tough bravado Aomine puts up, the walls and the indifference, it’s shed away in these tiny moments, and to be honest, Kagami wouldn’t want him any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who aren't familiar with swifter duster commercials, you should look it up on youtube! I saw it play a million times back when I used to watch TV haha, so I thought to throw that in there. ^q^
> 
> Comments are super appreciated!! And I hope to see you next time~


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